


Snow Bones

by full_moon_pills



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Concerned Castiel (Supernatural), Concerned Sam Winchester, Crying Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dean Winchester Has an Eating Disorder, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Depressed Dean Winchester, Eating Disorders, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Holidays, How Do I Tag, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester (mentioned), Post Episode AU: s14e14, Post-Episode: s14e14 Ouroboros, Post-Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Dean Winchester, Traumatized Dean Winchester, it's Christmas and everyone is sad, post michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 12:59:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19273828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/full_moon_pills/pseuds/full_moon_pills
Summary: He doesn’t know when it started, only that it did, and now Dean’s hunched over a toilet at three a.m., shoving two fingers down his throat and willing his dinner to come up.After the Michael ordeal, Team Free Will heads to Jody's cabin for the holidays in hopes that Dean can unwind from his trauma.(Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts, depression, eating disorders, non-explicit sexual assault.)





	Snow Bones

When Dean enters the bunker’s kitchen, Sam does a full 180 and balks for an entire minute before apparently realizing that staring at his brother as he gets himself a cup of coffee isn’t the most fascinating thing and he should really close his mouth or he’ll be swallowing flies for breakfast.

At least that’s how Dean imagines Sam’s internal monologue to be. He sips his coffee, now hyper aware of how his brother is trying not to look at him. Finally, surrendering to the losing battle, Sam peers at Dean and asks, like he’s trying to be casual, “So you finally ventured out of your room?”

“Yeah.”

Sam nods, looks down at the lore book spread open on the kitchen table, and nods again.

“How’s Jack?” The words come out a little rougher than he meant them too, and Dean clears his throat. Small talk feels like something he did Before.

“Good. Yeah, y’know, we’re working on it. His soul and everything.”

He watches his brother’s eyebrows scrunch, as though he wants to say more, can’t. “Right.” Jack opened the door to his room – what, a few days ago? Maybe a full week. He can’t really keep track of time anymore. It feels insignificant, anyways – and stood in the doorway. Asked how he was, and Dean said he was fine, of course he was, why else would he shut himself in his room to sit in the dark for a week?

Sam came too, found Dean sitting on the ground between the bed and the wall with his palms clenched over his eyes. He left him food, and then Cas entered, watched Dean rock back and forth, sat with him until it was clear that he wouldn’t move, or eat, or turn on the lights.

Dean sets down his coffee cup to rub at the pain in his chest. It doesn’t budge, but Sam catches sight of the movement and looks up, concerned. “Fine, Sam,” Dean cuts him off before he can start.

Instead, Sam angles his shoulders towards him, expressing undivided attention. Or something equally annoying. “How are you doing?”

“Michael’s dead. I’m alive. We’re good.” Not that being alive should be listed as good, but maybe it’ll reassure his brother.

“Yeah, of course. But Dean, you were possessed. The effects that that has–” 

The room stint was probably a bad idea. Not that Dean could really decide against it, not when every bit of his body ached to shut down and everything, everything felt so heavy and hollow and he wanted to cry like he hadn’t since Cas died. For no reason at all. _Violation in the worst way,_ Cas had once described possession. What he hadn’t included was the After.

But what _had_ been a good idea? Locking himself in a box and throwing himself into the Pacific Ocean.

Dean takes a seat opposite Sam, and the smell of his eggs wafts up in a sickening lurch and _god, he’s hungry_ –

“You hungry?” The corner of Sam’s mouth twists up, encouragingly, like it’s a _good_ thing he’s hungry. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten, anyways?”

“Naw, I’m good. How’s Cas?”

“Okay,” responds a mutter above his head and Dean jerks around to see the angel taking a seat next to him. Blue eyes crinkle and Dean looks away, knowing what comes next. “And you, Dean?”

He chews on his lip and the sharp twitch of pain distracts him from the aching of his heartbeat. Cas wants an honest answer – they all do. They just don’t want _his_ honest answer. “I'mma take Baby out for a ride.”

By the time he’s settling into his seat, he realizes he forgot to drink his coffee. Whatever; coffee’s got to have calories.

 

* * *

He slows Baby down to a soft cruise. It’s silent but for the ripping of rubber against cement. Dean looks down at his hands on the steering wheel and his foot slams down on the brake. Blinks, squeezes, opens. The blood is gone.

But the pain in his chest is back.

What Michael did to him, he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to process it. Hell, the Mark, being a demon, loosing friends and family, that he’s lived through – but he’s never lost control like this. Never run his eyes over his body and barely recognized it because it’s not his anymore, it’s Michael’s, it belongs to someone else; never – _felt_ – so much like nothing.

He’s still drowning.

The panic starts out as thin cellophane, stretching over his mouth and constricting his chest, his view, the too-fast beat of his heart and he didn’t even drink any coffee, everything is okay now, he shouldn’t be panicking when there’s nothing even _wrong_ –

Dean folds over, head to his steering wheel, clenches in tighter _he’s still drowning_ struggles to breath past the knotting in his throat _he’ll always be drowning_.

He throws the car door open, plants his feet on the ground, coughs into his knees. The spaces between his ribs are clenching.

 

* * *

He doesn’t know when it started, only that it did, and now Dean’s hunched over a toilet at three a.m., shoving two fingers down his throat and willing his dinner to come up.

He ate too much. Maybe it was to placate Sam and Cas, maybe it was to make them stop looking at him like he was damn breakable. Or maybe he was just hungry.

And the last explaination is the most damning. So when Dean finishes, he gets up on unsteady legs and brushes his teeth and then stares in the mirror.

His body feels so wrong.

He doesn’t notice his face is wet until he looks at his eyes – Michael’s eyes – and sees them stare at him with disgust. Rubbing a hand over his cheeks, Dean thinks, _I’ll fix this. I’ll fix me._

 

* * *

Nightmares again. They didn’t make an appearance during his week in self-imposed solitary confinement, and maybe he was just too tired then, but now that they’re back they’re worse. Thrashing, scratching at the walls, all of the above. All Dean can do is thank god he hasn’t screamed out yet.

Unwilling to go back to sleep, Dean slumps on the bunker’s couch and waits for daybreak.

Castiel finds him like that, staring at the wall. “Sam thinks that going to Jody’s cabin would be good for all of us,” he says quietly.

Sam just doesn’t want the responsibility of Dean to fall on him. Needs someone else to watch his brother, too disgusted to face Michael’s broken vessel himself. Dean doesn’t blame him.

He’s disgusted too.

“We’re thinking of heading out today.”

Cas’ voice is soft, gentle, and it makes Dean want to break something. Rip apart this temporary caring with his own hands because he doesn’t _deserve_ it. He never has. And when Cas finds out how fucked up he is he’ll be the first to leave.

“Dean?”

He doesn’t want to see Jody, or Claire, or Alex, and it’s a selfish thought. Dad toldhim not to be so goddamn selfish, Dean should know better. “Sure,” he says, words grit on the back of his throat, and he feels like he’s been bled dry. The only thing left is a heaving corpse, blind and weak and Dad _told_ him not to be so weak. “Sure,” he says, again, and checks to see if his index and thumb touch when they’re wrapped around his wrist.

Castiel’s presence is warm at his shoulder, velvet breaths curling into the shell of his ear. “How are you, really?” comes the anticipated words, crooned and _safe_.

Dean wants so desperately to answer to them. “I’m okay, Cas,” and he makes a mental note to skip breakfast for the lie.

 

* * *

They pull up to the cabin with a screech of tires and Dean shuts off Led Zeppelin – he turned it on only to stifle conversation – and goes to greet Jody and the girls.

“Dean,” Jody grins as she engulfs him in a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“Good to see you, Jody,” he smiles back, but it wavers at the corners, stretched too big, and Dean knows his eyes are darting to the ground. “Hey, kiddo,” he adds when Claire hugs him, then Alex. Tries to pretend he doesn’t see how Sam mutters a thank you into Jody’s embrace.

Jack says hi too, and Dean can’t remember if he’s ever met the girls before. His lack of memory’s been weirding him out a bit, but he figures maybe this way he won’t remember what he – _Michael_ – did either.

The last person to step out of the cabin smiles and waves, and it takes a minute for his brain cells to reconcile his busted memory and the person in front of him and then–

“Patience,” Sam says. “It’s nice to see you. What are you doing here?”

“Jody was kind enough to give me a place to stay for the holidays,” she replies.  _The holidays?_ Right. Christmas or something like that. That explains all the snow Baby had to suffer through. “My dad’s out of town, but I doubt I’d stay with him if he weren’t.”

“Things still rocky between you?” his brother asks sympathetically.

Patience nods and moves to say hello to Dean, apparently, and it’s not until she’s standing in front of him and looking for all the world like she wants to either hug him or hit him over the head with a baseball bat. It’s then that, stupidly, he realizes, _fuck. She’s a psychic._

She can read minds, or sense energies, or whatever. And that means that she knows exactly how he feels, and what he’s done, and how fucking terrified he is of everyone finding out exactly that – how repulsive he is. Dean sticks out a hand before she can do something like hug him.

Behind him, Sam gives a not-so-subtle sigh, like he expected Dean to be _nicer_ or something.

 

* * *

Lunch is easy to skip. He tells Jody he loves the forest out back beyond her cabin, and isn’t he just so excited about picking out a Christmas tree tomorrow, and can slip out unnoticed into the woods and neatly miss out on eating.

He can’t remember the last full meal that he ate, and his stomach is tightening in on itself, clinging to his ribs. Sharp thrills jerk up through his chest when he breathes in too deeply. Dean wonders how much of it is from the starvation and how much of it belongs to the pressing memory of not being able to breathe underwater.

In the bathroom, he lifts up his shirt and inhales, deep, watching his muscles clench and stomach pull in. Sucks the air out of himself, teaches himself how to breathe when he’s drowning.

Michael won’t be able to force him underwater anymore, he knows that. Jack burned him, swallowed his grace. And Dean's free, but part of his freedom died with Michael. Like there’s a tube inside of him that was chalk-full of liberty and self-governing but the archangel poured some out, and there’s no way to fill it up again. And he knows he’ll never be free again.

So Dean takes an early shower then, and scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs with Jody’s stupid bubblegum soap until his skin is raw and pink to match. The imprisonment of his body turns into wrongness turns into _dirty_. And he needs to get it out, the dirty _out_.

He gets out of the shower with his skin half shaved off and when he sits down for dinner, gut shriveling to the bottom of his core, if it looks like his skin was shaved off, no one comments. Dinner is hard to avoid, harder than lunch, and he sits with Sam on one side and Cas on the other, staring at his plateful of food.

He’s so hungry it  _hurts_.

“Dean, are you gonna eat?” Claire asks from across the table, and distantly he realizes that everyone’s already dug in and there’s clinking of forks and knives. The hands that hold his silverware on either side of his plate tremble, and he closes his fingers harder on the metal before anyone can see.

“‘Course,” he says, smiles.

There’s steak and potatoes. Classic winter food, the kind that Dean wanted so desperately to be able to cook for Sammy when they were young. Of course, steak costed money, and so did potatoes. Money Dad didn’t have, wouldn’t give Dean, money Dean didn’t have. And here he is, trying to turn down a perfectly good meal that Jody cooked for him, that she took time to make, that he’s now refusing. Being so selfish. But the _calories_ – he can practically see them wafting off of this thing. Steak’s gotta have 600 at least, and potatoes nearly 200, and that’s 800 calories, and he _told_ himself no more than 500, and–

“Hey, Dean,” a nudge at his elbow mutters. “Hey man, you still here?”

It takes Dean a moment to refocus on Sam’s wide, worried eyes. “Yeah.” he clears his throat gruffly and pauses a second before cutting a piece off of his steak and eating it. It bobs in the back of his mouth, eyes burning for a second, and he wishes he could throw it up. His throat clenches around it and he swallows. But Sam’s still looking at him, so he keeps eating. The stark of the potato makes the inside of his mouth feel dry and he pushes his food around his plate for a bit.

Patience talks to Sam, Claire and Alex bicker, and Jack exchanges some pleasantries with Jody, tells her there’s no reason to worry about him being sick – it seems that Sam spread that news around quicker than wildfire – now that he has his powers back, and Cas gives the both of the Winchesters a meaningful look. It’s clear that Jack’s soul is still up for questioning and that their current holiday peace is somewhat compromised. It’s tiring. Dean doesn’t need another reminder of how much he fucks things up.

Finally, Jody asks him if he’d like to help her clean up. She’ll want to talk, but he still agrees – as long as it doesn’t take longer than digestion. He needs to get rid of this food.

Dean is washing the dishes by the time she speaks up. “I can’t pretend to understand how hard it is, Dean, having had Michael up there.”

Jesus, how much news is Sam spreading around? It’s not like the whole country needs to know he was possessed by an archangel from an alternate dimension hellbent on bringing apocalypse 3.0.

“But if you ever need to talk to someone, I’m here.”

Nodding, he places a plate down and moves onto a cup. Soapy suds foam between his fingertips. He doesn’t look at her.

“Dean,” she says again, and it’s indefinitely kind and for that he wants to put his hands over his ears and block out every single noise. “You know you have your brother, and Castiel, and Jack, Claire, Alex – all of us. You’re not alone.”

Dean nods again, and thinks about how heavy the food feels sitting in his stomach, and his hands shake when they work against the second cup.

 

* * *

At first there’s music, the kind that would play at a congregation, with a choir and notes rising higher, higher. But Dean doesn’t know where the music’s coming from, because it’s blunted and watery—

He’s looking out through his eyes but he can’t control his hands. The music’s still there, ascending in weeping stanzas. And Dean’s still there, but he’s trapped, and his hands are moving of their own violation, head is twisting down to see Cas and Sam, panting on the floor.

“Dean, please,” Sam grits. Tears are being forced from his watering eyes and his fingers scratch into the wooden floor. _“Please!”_

Cas looks up at him, blue and poignantly burning gaze, says softly, though the pain, “I forgive you, Dean,” and Dean’s never been so goddamn terrified.

The hands – _his_ hands, once – flick, and they crumple on the floor, unmoving.

And he is screaming. They can’t hear him, because he’s not in control and he’s trapped and he’s begging _please out I don’t want to do this anymore please don’t hurt them please please_ but soon the word are just soundless shrieks.

_I own you._

Then there are voices, and he is twisting, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, he must be drowning – his vision fades into black but he’s still screaming, and the noises are louder and he’s so fucking scared–

He’s pulled out his gun from under his pillow and fired two rounds into a shadow.

There’s hushing, and then “You’re safe” is the first thing to break through to his ears.

His grips shakes on the gun and Dean shudders, because now everything is deathly still and quiet and who did he kill? Sweat is slick between his palms and the metal, his heart pumping two beats in his throat, then dropping down to his chest, where it hums fiercely.

The voice says, “Put the gun down. I promise you’re safe.”

In a searing flash, the lights are on, illuminating a familiar room, a group of people framed in the doorway and, right in front of him, Castiel. 

“You... you’re alive?” stutters out of his mouth.

“Yes, Dean, I’m alive,” Cas says, all gravelly voice and furrowing eyebrows. Slowly, like Dean is a frightened puppy he doesn’t want to scare, he takes a seat on the side of his bed. Dean drops the gun.

Bile is rising in his stoamch, nauseating. He - no, Michael - definitely killed Cas. Cas is dead. There’s no other reason for the pang in his chest to be this acute. Dean gives Castiel an anxious once-over, eyes landing on the bullet holes in his trench coat.

The realization makes his heart stop for a full beat and Dean’s breath hitches, scatters, and his hand’s there, at his wrist, measuring, and his palm is working at his chest, falling to crumple into his sweaty shirt and feel that his ribs still stick out like they should, and what fucking _thing_ is he to have shot _Cas_?

“I shot you.”

“It’s okay.”

“I shot you.” It comes out broken this time.

“Bullets have no effects on angels, Dean.”

Right. He emptied an entire magazine into Castiel’s chest when they first met, shoved a knife into his heart, and Cas just pulled it out and smiled. If he was human, though, and Dean had still fired... he was capable of killing his best friend. He was a killer, Ketch had been right. All the things that Michael had done, those were done by his own hands too.

“Dean, look at me. This isn’t your fault and it doesn’t prove anything. You were in the middle of a nightmare, half awake–”

“I should have had more control.” And he _should_ have. “It doesn’t matter that I was in the middle of a nightmare, Cas, I–” Dean breaks off, looks away.

Cas’ hand rests on his knee, thumb rubbing a small circle, and Dean tells himself to pull away – he doesn’t deserve this – but can’t bring himself to leave the comfort. “Do you need anything?”

People are still standing in the doorway – Sam, he can make out, and Jody, Claire, Jack, Alex, Patience. Humiliation twines against his stomach. “I’m gonna go back to sleep, Cas.”

Thankfully, the angel accepts it. “Tell me if you need anything, I’ll be right here. Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night.”

He won’t be sleeping anyways.

 

* * *

The one thing he’s truly excellent at is creeping around the house at predawn, unnoticed. On the nights when Dad would come home drunk to collapse on the sofa, Dean had to maneuver around him. When the latest motel’s floorboards creaked, he used the furniture; when he had to get Sammy to school on time, he’d make the kid stand clear out of Dad’s way and tiptoe around to get him his bag and breakfast. It wasn’t like Dad would wake up hungover and take out all his life’s misery on Sam, but Dean didn’t want to take a risk. He always did _something_ to upset Dad.

And he isn’t climbing crappy furniture, but his skills give Dean enough sense to hide, plastered to a wall, when he hears Patience and Sam talking in the kitchen table over coffee.

“Auras are difficult things to make sense of,” comes Patience’s words, quiet and musing. “Your brother... his inner turmoil, his emotions, they’re so strong that it’s hard to focus on them. I can’t, or they’ll overwhelm me.”

They sure as hell don’t feel _so strong_ now. Not when all he _can_ feel is the bitter squeezing of his body as it fights to keep him running on nothing. The dizziness pulsing behind his eyelids.

“But?” Sam presses, and Dean swears he can hear his little brother worrying his lip between his front teeth.

“There’s a lot of fear. Shame. Anger, but it’s directed towards himself, mostly. And there’s something I can’t really place–”

He chooses that moment to saunter into the kitchen and pour himself a cup of coffee. He searched it up and it turns out that coffee doesn’t have calories. “Morning.”

Patience’s mouth closes and Sam gives him a tight-lipped, sympathetic smile.

Later, they go pick out a Christmas tree and all Dean can think of is how much he hates Christmas.

 

* * *

Jody must have some sort of an obsession with steak, because she cooks ribs for dinner. Dean eats (not really), but foregoes the talking. He’s worrying people; Jody and Alex try to engage him in conversation, but he just pushes his food around his plate and avoids questions. He knows he’s worrying people, and he hates it, but every inch of him is so depleted that he can’t even summon enough energy to care.

“Seriously?” Claire seethes from across the table and Dean’s neck snaps up.

“Claire-” Jody warns sharply, but the young hunter doesn’t pay attention to her. Her cheeks are flushed in anger.

“Now you’re going to starve yourself just because an archangel possessed you?"

“That’s not-” Dean’s words choke in his mouth, rise with a sickening lurch of bile. Beneath his hands, the meat is seeping red - _blood_ \- and he can’t eat that, Dean can’t eat that, the memories are too fresh, he can’t eat that, he _can’t_ , and he feels _sick_ –

Dean bolts.

He doesn’t even need to make himself throw up. Palms flat on the edges of the ceramic basin, chest heaving forward with painful intensity, the food comes up. Waiting a few minutes there, hunched over his vomit, arms shaking, he realizes his head is pounding.

And it is fucking overwhelming.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is at the door to the bathroom. Dean grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes closed, like maybe that’ll make his brother disappear.

“No-not now, Sam,” he groans. He needs an Advil. Head is killing him.

But then his gigantum of a brother is kneeling next to him, feeling his forehead and tipping Dean’s chin up so he can peer critically into his eyes. “You don’t look sick,” Sam observes. “What happened back there?”

Acid wash rolls between his tongue and gums. Dean swallows. “D’ss’nt mat’r.”

“You know you can talk to me, Dean.”

He knows. He’ll talk and tell Sam about how he wakes up screaming, not knowing where he is, how his lungs feel constipated and there’s a constant pressing over his heart, how he’s so goddamn _tired_ , how he has to count calories to stay in control, how most days he can barely get out of bed. How Michael drowned him and he clawed, pleaded, fought – still couldn’t escape. How the archangel pounded at the door in his head. Dean knows what will happen if he confesses those things.

Sam lets out a low exhale. “Claire shouldn’t have said that, but she was right that you need to take care of yourself, Dean. I understand that this is hard for you, but you don’t have to do this alone.”

His brother is going to leave. Dean’s finally snapped, finally gone properly mad in a way that Sam’s Doing Things Together and holiday reunions can’t fix. Sam’s already sick of him.

“Just – hear me out on this, okay. I think that you should see a professional. There’s no shame in getting help–”

“And a professional’s gonna help with being possessed by an archangel?”

“A professional can help with depression.”

Everything inside of Dean freezes and it takes a minute before he can roll his eyes. “Okay, Sam.” He throws as much scoffing venom behind his words as he can, like it’s Sammy again, Sammy who doesn’t know anything. “Okay.”

 

* * *

He’s afraid that if he goes to sleep he won’t be himself anymore when he wakes up.

So instead of sleeping he takes showers. It wakes him up, the expectation of withdrawal of oxygen; the panic.

Alex harps on him for taking “like, twelve showers a day” and Claire too, once she sheepishly apologizes for the dinner fiasco (you don’t need to, he tells her; it’s hard but sometimes you just gotta tough through it, he lies). He figures he spends half of his life in the bathroom now: rubbing his skin dry, washing his hands over and over til they’re deep red.

“How many showers are you going to take?” Sam asks once. Cas looks up from the seventh Harry Potter book (he gave up on the lore for the holidays, to Dean’s amusement) and his eyes are knowing.

However many it takes.

The other half of his life he spends drinking coffee. Dean’s cut back on the alcohol almost entirely – calories – and without whiskey to ease the way down, knowing he’s on the edge of the cliff and still falling, Dean needs to numb himself. So he doesn’t eat, and when he does, his knees have already become well-adjusted to the bathroom floor, fingers to the inside of his mouth. It gives him sharp pains up his sides and tremors down his legs when he tries to stand for too long and he’s always cold, but the pain is welcome. Distracting.

His thumb and index touch when he wraps them around his arm.

 

* * *

The demons take turns. None of them have Alastair’s artistry, but they know how to carve, and burn, and violate. By the end, Dean has been used and sliced into and all he can smell, taste, hear is blood – pumping in his ears, reminding him painfully that he’s still here; bubbling up between his lips; a constant smothering over his sinuses.

By the end, he’s been cut into cubes and placed back together again. His eyes have been gourged out and his intestines have been strung over his arms and he’s been raped.

Still, nothing compares to Alastair. Alastair talks, and Dean is his canvas, and he draws it out nice and slow, and Dean is powerless.

Dean wakes up sweating, screaming, and he’s already curled up on the shower floor and pleading into the running water for absolution by the time he realizes it was just a dream.

 

* * *

Normal people cry when they do this. He thinks maybe he should cry, just because, but his eyes already feel like they’ve been smote out of his skull so it’s not worth it. His hands are too busy with the gun to wipe the tears away either, and he sure as hell doesn’t want them to find him with his face blotched out in red.

It’s going to be anyways. Blotched out in red, he means.

He can hear himself breathe even though he got out of Baby and there are other, louder noises now, like wind and pine trees rustling. It wasn’t really a choice when it came to doing it in Baby or not – he doesn’t want her drenched in his blood.

The gun rises to his temple, presses. Dean exhales, watches his breath foam up the sky. It’s the kind of evening Cas likes, with lots of stars.

His chest is hurting again and he brings his free hand up to rub the heaviness away, but it wells up again and he curses, hand clutching at his shirt. His sternum stands out in a thin line now, and it’s disgusting, he knows, how much he’s ruined himself.

Through the mouth is better, he heard that somewhere, so he lowers the gun and presses it between his lips. Imagines the force, the blood, the relief. It’ll be better this way. For everyone. And it’s fucked up, but with a gun to his head, knowing that _he could die_ , he could die right now, he’s never felt safer.

It’s started to snow. It’ll soak up all the blood, take days to wash out with rain. Out in Jody’s forest, it’ll be a while before anyone finds him anyways.

He sniffs then, and Dean curses himself for crying – look at him, normal after all. Goes back into Baby and puts the gun into its compartment, left side, handle facing outwards, and puts her into drive.

His hands haven’t stopped shaking in a long time, but when he steps into the cabin, he realizes his entire body’s quaking like he’s brought on the earthquake of the century. It’s cold, even beneath twenty layers.

It’s the middle of the night, and it seems like everyone’s still asleep except for Cas, who’s reading a book by lamplight, tucked into a corner of the living room sofa. Dean’s vision scatters, looking for ways to avoid his friend, when Castiel looks up, says, “Dean?”

He must look a sight – hunched and shivering, with damp eyes and red flushing high on his cheeks from the windchill. Cas’ brow furrows and he pats the space on the sofa next to him. Dean wants to decline – he’s a mess, honestly – but sits down, tucks his feet up, and braces his arms over his chest. He should be feeling something at this point, probably, but Dean sticks his hand down, deep, into his gooey black intestines and his palm comes up empty. There’s still nothing inside of him.

“You’re pale, Dean, and your blood blood pressure’s low, it’s a wonder you haven’t passed out. We should get some food in you.”

“Can’t right now, Cas,” he whispers hoarsely.

There’s a moment of stillness from the angel before he tilts his head, says, “I’ll get you some water.” He stands up and every part of Dean is begging to pull him back down, to make him stay. Of course Cas wants to leave Dean – maybe he’s seen him at his worst, maybe he doesn’t care. But he’ll still leave. He’s still _left_.

Such relief floods him when he sees Cas coming back – he didn’t leave, _he didn’t leave_ – towing a blanket and cup full of water that a sob is caught in his throat. With tender fingers, Cas feels Dean’s forehead, wipes the wet from under his eyes with the pad of his thumb. “Cas,” he complains gruffly, pulling away, but the angel only takes a seat next to Dean.

He dozes off at some point, awakes with a start and finds himself collapsed into Cas, and he’s too exhausted to move but Cas doesn’t seem like he minds anyways, with an arm languidly resting around Dean’s waist.

Cas must feel him stir, because he pulls away – “Sorry, I should have asked–” 

“No,” Dean mumbles into his shirt, and platonic best buds probably don’t do this, but no one else is around to see, so Dean allows himself to exist.

 

* * *

He knew it would happen eventually.

It doesn’t take away the humiliation like a sharp jab in the center of his spine. His stomach clenches and the roof of his mouth is burning and the fingers of his right hand are hanging, slick with spit and evidence.

And Sam is standing like someone sucked the life out of him, shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this, Dean,” he says sadly. Sammy looks up, and his eyes are wide and damp.

I promised, _I promised_ , Dean repeats.

“You said you would be strong for me,” Sam continues, and he’s not accusing, just let down, and why does that make it worse- “You were supposed to protect me.”

“Sammy, listen to me – I’m sorry, Sammy–”

 

* * *

He knew it would happen eventually.

It doesn’t take away the humiliation like a sharp jab in the center of his spine. His stomach clenches and the roof of his mouth is burning and the fingers of his right hand are hanging, slick with spit and evidence.

Sam is glaring at him and for a blessed second he doesn’t understand why. Then he glances back to the toilet his lunch disappeared down, and rubs his fingers, and then he’s so goddamn embarrassed.

Sam breathes deep, like he does when he’s trying to control himself. It doesn’t work because he shouts, and Dean cringes back into the tiled bathroom wall, cold on his shoulders.

“What the hell, Dean? How messed up are you? God. We’ve all been possessed, you idiot, but at least we didn’t starve ourselves! At least we didn’t try to kill ourselves! You’re so fucking selfish, Dean. So fucking–”

 

* * *

He knew it would happen eventually.

It doesn’t take away the humiliation like a sharp jab in the center of his spine. His stomach clenches and the roof of his mouth is burning and the fingers of his right hand are hanging, slick with spit and evidence.

A humorless laugh, heavy with desertion, rings like bells in his ears. It humans in his ears and Dean has to double-take before he can focus on Sam’s words.

“I knew it.” His brother raises a hand to stifle his splintering protests. “No, you don’t get to _talk_. You’ve done your share, Dean.”

Sam turns like he’s going to leave, and Dean’s entire body thrums in uncontained panic - then he stops. Gives another empty chuckle that pounds into Dean’s stomach hard, a punch. “You know what? You should just fucking die.”

And then he does leave.

 

* * *

“Dean! Dean, hey, breathe. C’mon, don’t pass out on me.”

He blinks up, sees Sam’s face – when did he stop crying? Shouting? Leaving? Vision blurring, he clutches onto a familiar fabric, smooth and solid beneath his fingertips – a trench coat – and tilts his head up, up, feels like he’s falling backwards, until he catches sight of Cas’ chin and familiar, constant 5 o’clock shadow – when did Cas get here? When did Sam come back? – and he blacks out.

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is the corner of Jody’s favorite duvet. He stays like that, staring, until his name is voiced and Dean has to draw his gaze upwards.

Cas and Sam are both sitting there, next to the bed, and their eyes look more tired than he feels. “Good, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Dean grins wanly. “Second round of Hell, Sammy.”

Sam’s lips twitch, flatten, and his eyebrows curl into concern. “We have to get some food into you–”

“No!” The word jerks out of Dean, makes his fingers curl into the carefully tucked sheets. He’s shaking, drowning – “No,” he pleads again, softer. “I can’t.”

“Dean–”

“I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me–”

“We can’t force you to eat, Dean,” Cas cuts across his mumblings calmly. “We just want you to listen. Please.”

Dean nods. Sure. He can listen. As long as they don’t expect him to eat.

His brother inhales, bites his lip, studies the ground a bit before speaking. “It’s bulimia.”

“What?” stutters out of Dean’s chest. The air is already tightening around his skin.

“It’s an eating disorder. Your… making yourself throw up, it’s bulimia, but the restricting is anorexia–” 

“Hold up,” he says, irate. “I’m not a teenage girl.” 

“Anorexia isn’t exclusive to teenage girls, Dean. It’s a mental illness that often has roots in trauma, like abuse and – and sexual assault–”

“Jesus, Sam, okay.” 

Sam's eyes flit down to where Dean’s index and thumb are measuring his arm. Dean pulls his hand away and shoves it under his armpit, in case it’s something wrong.

“Why?” Sam asks. He can guess. Dean isn’t about to tell him.

Then: "We're going to get through this, Dean."

Sure.

 

* * *

His bones feel like soft-powdered snow, already fallen.

Putting himself back together burns his bare hands raw.

 

* * *

They can play it off like one talk solves all of their worldly problems and snatches their egos up from distress, but it’s not how it goes for the Winchesters. They talk, and then they self-medicate, and shut themselves in their rooms to cry, and kill some monsters, and eventually the open wound becomes a drying scab.

The scars are still there. They’ll always be. But the point is that Sam’s valiant attempt at A Talk doesn’t fix Dean right up.

Healing is slower, and painful, and 90% of the days Dean has panic attacks before he can eat a single bite of anything. Dredging himself up from the pit he’s buried in is like trying to kill a monster that most times he feels powerless against. But Sam can shoot it in the heart, slow it down, and Cas can smite it so it’ll stay quiet for a bit.

They celebrate Christmas too, with the tree and presents, and if Dean and Cas hold hands the entire day, no one says anything. Sam just smirks.

 

* * *

“Can you tell me why?”

The words don’t made Dean freeze, like last time. Cas’ breath puffs out onto his cheek, rhythmically, and it’d be okay, really, to tell. Cas wouldn’t judge.

It still hurts to say. “I needed it. To be in control.”

Castiel hums, cards his fingers through Dean’s hair and the tenseness he didn’t know had gathered in his neck fades. They’re cuddled up together, and Dean would never admit it out loud but he likes being the little spoon. Castiel is the transcendent, sovran, gorgeous creature that gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, but he’s also Cas, and he smells like cinnamon and safety and he throws snowballs at Jack and his kisses are light and human. “And now?”

“I don’t know, Cas.” He feels better now, most days. At least it’s easier to get through without breaking down. And it doesn’t mean that he’s ever going to loose the fear that Sam and Cas will leave, but Dean trusts them. Everything he built up inside of himself screams when he eats, but he reminds himself that it’s his choice, that he’s allowed the food. “I don’t... I don’t think I need it anymore. Just want it.”

“You deserve to be happy, Dean.”

He doesn’t. He _doesn’t_. Dean rolls over onto his other side to face Cas, watch the blue in his eyes tilt in the semi-darkness.

“You deserve to be happy.”

For now, it’s enough that Cas believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this when I was in a rut both writing and mental-health wise, so I'm sorry if it's not the most beautiful or realistic thing. I just wanted to do justice to Dean's trauma. In all ways, thank you for reading, and if you can spare some time, please comment!


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